Thursday, April 23, 2009

What I want.

I want poems I can open like a can of beer
but shut by themselves like a bank vault door.
Poems with old chairs in them,
and washed-out white pine boards.
Poems with foot prints through them,
dog-eared lines, and faded phone numbers
printed in pencil.
Poems that can take the edge out of
the night voices, isolate and silence the “You Fraud” s,
the “You Loser” s; poems that take me to a garden
where all the flowers are closed for the night,
merely awaiting dawn; a garden where
footstep echoes mutter in the faint breeze.
I want poems that name every man who needs to save himself
by being alone; we’re connected with “Do Not Disturb” signs,
graffiti like “Just Kiddin’”, “Attack Poem On Premises”,
“Thanks for last night” smeared on in red lipstick.

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